I used to be a footballer so I’ve had my fair share of injuries in the past.

I once had to have my anterior cruciate ligaments reconstructed, or to give it a less technical explanation, I knackered my knee and had to have it rebuilt.

We all have our ailments – some of us do something about it and ­some just grin and bear it.

I’m a part-time skater, occasional triathlon participant and a full-time kid-chaser, so I need to respect what’s good for me – which makes the following nothing short ­of amateurish.

Rewind to one week ago. It was sports day at the boys’ school and the weather was lovely. Having made sure I had the whole day off, I walked over to the playing field armed with my picnic blanket and camera to capture the day.

Bobby began competing in the morning. I’d already watched him do well in a staggering 10 events when an announcement came over the PA that the dads’ race was getting under way in 10 minutes.

Now, I’d watched it last year, just days after having my appendix out, thinking ‘The dad who won is a bit good, I wonder if I can take him on?’

It struck me that sitting down for hours before sprinting like your life depends on it isn’t the most sensible sporting strategy but what harm could a little dash do?

I glanced to my left, then to my right – the dads were limbering up like it was the 100m Olympic final!

Suddenly the whistle blew and off I went, sharp as anything, running barefoot like the Masai.

Jumping through the ­hula-hoop and taking care through the cones, ­I finished a comfortable first.

I had booked my place in the final, but it didn’t take long for the embarrassment to set in over how hard I’d tried! Too late now, the second heat was about to start and I needed to check out the competition.

THAT dad came in first, setting the final up nicely. It was time to find out if this man could be beaten. It was a good 10 minutes until the final – long enough for my legs to get ­a little tight – ­but once again ­I was far too ­self-conscious to begin stretching.

I started off well only to get five metres down the track before straining in agony. I felt like I’d been shot in the leg.

I knew at once that I’d pulled my hamstring, but I couldn’t stop!

I continued on rather awkwardly, ignoring my better judgment in the hope that my body was lying to me, and limped home in second.

I felt robbed! I’ve been in enough competitive situations to know better than to behave like that, but the pressure got the better of me. The result? I’m out of action for a week as far as my triathlon training goes.

And I’ll have to wait a year until I get another shot at THAT dad.

But I’ll be better prepared next time – let’s just hope nobody spots me warming up in the field next to the boys’ school!